Chapter 5
FIVE
SIMMER
VAL
Shaun and I stand shoulder to shoulder at the barn entrance, staring at the space that’s supposed to become cozy and welcoming for kids. Neither of us moves. Not for a solid minute.
“Fred really needs a new F word to describe this farm,” Shaun mutters.
I snort. He’s not wrong. It looks like Fred swept every vaguely useful thing in here and decided that was good enough.
Tables sit overturned and sticky. Boxes overflow with dried-out paint and bent pipe cleaners.
Burnt glue hangs thick in the air, tangled with the sweet rot of pumpkin guts.
Hay coats the floor in uneven drifts, and spider webs stretch overhead like decorations no one asked for.
“Festering?” I offer. “Foul? Fake?”
Shaun chuckles, low and easy, and I feel it more than I hear it. The sound travels through the small space between us, warm and distracting. My shoulder brushes his when he shifts. The contact is brief, accidental, but my skin registers it like a live wire.
I know he’s looking at me.
My pulse ticks up. Annoying. Unhelpful.
Don’t look.
Do not look at his stupid, unfairly perfect face.
My eyes snag on the way his shoulders stretch his worn T-shirt.
“I always liked this side of you,” he says, stepping into the mess and kicking a rough path through the hay toward a table.
That snaps me out of my ogle session.
“What side?”
He flips the table upright with a grunt and finally looks back at me, a lock of his loose brown waves dipping into his eyeline. I’m still by the door, rooted to the spot. Getting closer feels dangerous. I already slipped once over that smile earlier. Rookie mistake.
He tilts his head, eyes bright, and his gaze drags over me slow enough to make my skin heat. It lingers. Everywhere. Then it locks with mine.
“The side that wasn’t afraid to be honest,” he says. “Even when it was directed at me.”
He winks and grabs a push broom like he didn’t just knock the air out of my lungs.
I force my legs to move and head for the boxes, shoving them aside harder than necessary. “Only certain company brings it out,” I say, keeping my back to him.
The broom stops mid-sweep. For one long second, the barn holds its breath.
Then Shaun murmurs, “Fair enough,” and the broom starts moving again.
We fall into silence. Real silence. The kind that presses in on your ears. We work opposite sides of the barn, careful not to brush against each other. Hay scrapes along the floor as it gets shoved toward the walls. Dust floats in the sunbeams cutting through the rafters. Time stretches.
After about an hour, the center of the barn finally clears. It almost looks usable.
We’re both adjusting table placement when Shaun breaks the quiet.
“So . . . what are you doing back home?” He keeps his tone light. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”
I freeze with my hands inside a ripped box. “I could ask you the same thing.”
He smirks. “Yeah, but I asked first.”
What are we, twelve?
“I just needed a break,” I say, aiming for casual. I pull out a battered box of crayons and line them up on the table. Some are snapped in half. Relatable.
His eyes track my movement, but he doesn’t push. That almost makes it worse.
I tear open a box of paintbrushes and change the subject before he can circle back. “So how does a guy like you end up volunteering for a pumpkin festival?”
He arches a brow. “A guy like me?”
“You know what I mean.” I keep my focus on the brushes, but curiosity hums under my skin.
I want to know. I just don’t want to admit that to him.
I want to know a lot of things about him.
I always have. I only ever saw him from the outside.
But even in kindergarten, he looked out for everyone.
Stepped in when someone got picked on. Acted like it was nothing.
His care and confidence drew me in like a mosquito to a bug zapper.
Stop.
Pull your shit together, Val.
God. What is wrong with you? You’re mad at him, remember?
He pauses, studying me like he’s deciding how much to give away. Then he steps closer. Too close. My pulse doesn’t get the memo that I’m supposed to be mad.
He lifts both hands like he’s about to high-five me. “You want the long story,” he says, shaking his right hand, “or the short one?” He shakes the left.
I always want the whole story.
I slap the right.
“It was during the playoff quarterfinals,” he says. “Fourth quarter. We were up by two touchdowns. Three minutes left.” His jaw tightens. “The coach should’ve let the second-string guy finish it. But he kept me in. Since it was against our biggest rivals, I guess Coach wanted to send a message.”
He takes a steadying breath.
“Defensive end jumped the count and drilled me. I landed wrong.” He snaps his fingers. “That was it.”
The echo of the snap makes my stomach drop.
“No more football,” he says quietly. “Can’t even lift it above shoulder height without feeling like it’s full of glass. So, I came home at the end of last semester. Don’t really have plans to go back.”
Well. Shit.
Silence settles between us, thick and heavy. I’ve seen him play on TV highlights, always commanding the field, always alive in a way that felt effortless. Even through a screen, his confidence radiated. I can’t imagine what it does to a person when that gets ripped away.
So I do the thing I always do when emotions get too big.
I reach for facts.
“The upside,” I say carefully, “is that repeated concussions raise the risk of long-term neurological damage. Memory issues. Cognitive decline. You’ll probably live a healthier life.”
He cracks a small grin. “True.”
“But it still sucks,” I add fast, meeting his eyes. “A lot.”
He nods like that’s the part he needed to hear.
We stay like that for a minute, staring into each other’s eyes, breathing heavy.
After what feels like an eternity—but is probably only a minute—Shaun grabs a piece of cardboard from the wall, sets it on the table, and dips a paintbrush into a jar. His arm flexes as he starts lettering a sign, slow and careful.
“Drew says I’ve been moody. Dragged me out here to do something useful. Get outside. Touch dirt.”
I smile despite myself. “And you listened?”
“He can be annoyingly persuasive.” He glances at me, his grin crooked. “Plus, it’s not like I had anything else to do now that I’m a washed-up football player.”
The joke lands, but the truth underneath it doesn’t miss. He believes it. Really believes that without the game, he’s nothing.
We fall into a quiet rhythm. I line up paint jars and smooth construction paper flat.
He keeps working on the sign, red letters forming with each brushstroke.
Sunlight slips through the cracks in the barn wall and catches in his hair, turning him all warm gold and shadow.
He may be trying to hide his sadness, but his eyes give him away.
I’m still mad at him. About the library. About the way he walked out without looking back. But sadness gets me every time. I want to fix it. I always have. That’s how I ended up building my life around everyone else.
I should probably see a therapist about that.
I step closer. Lay my hand over his. Stop the brush mid-stroke. He goes still under my palm. His skin is rough. Warm.
He looks up. Surprise flashes across his face.
I wait until his eyes lock on mine. He needs to hear this. Not hide from it.
“Your career didn’t end because you failed,” I say. “It ended because that sport takes more than it gives. You’re allowed to be angry. Most people don’t lose their dream at twenty. Athletes do. The research shows how common that loss is, but that doesn’t make it hurt less.”
Something shifts in his eyes. The tightness eases. The anger loosens its grip.
His other hand comes up to cover mine. Rough callouses brush my skin, earned from years of football. My pulse jumps. My brain locks on to the contact. More, please.
He squeezes, just once.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“You’re welcome.” I pull my hand free and step back, putting space between us before I do something reckless. “Still doesn’t mean I forgive you for being an asshole.”
I turn to the paint jars and line them up, red to violet. Order helps when my chest feels like this.
“You probably don’t even remember the library,” I add, quieter, focusing too hard on the paint lids. “That moment meant more to me than it did to you.”
I keep working. Keep my eyes down. To him, it was probably just another almost-kiss. To me, it was everything. And the silence after hurt worse than rejection.
“I remember that moment very well, Val.”
The way he says my name makes me freeze.
I turn. He’s dropped the brush and fully faces me now. Face serious.
I cross my arms. “Really? Because ignoring me for the rest of senior year kind of sends a different message.”
He steps closer. One step. That’s all it takes. The space between us tightens, charged and impossible to ignore. He isn’t smiling. His eyes hold mine, stable and honest.
“Trust me,” he says. “It wasn’t anything you did.”
My brain stumbles. “That’s incredibly vague and not helpful.”
He nods, like he expected that, then turns back toward the sign. I still catch the grin he’s trying to hide.
“How about we get some work done,” he says, glancing over his shoulder, “and I tell you more at lunch?”
I snort, grateful for the release of tension. “Who says I even want to hear what you have to say?”
“I know you, Val.” His grin comes easy, familiar. “You hate unanswered questions.”
I turn away before my face gives me up. I still feel the pull of his attention on my back.
He carries the sign over and hammers it into the dirt beside the table.
KIDS’ CRAFTS – PUMPKIN PAINTING AND MORE!
The exclamation point feels a little too optimistic.
Shaun straightens and drags his forearm across his forehead, sweat darkening the edge of his shirt. The fabric pulls tight over his back and arms, and I look away before my brain can short-circuit.
Focus. Be normal.
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m going to be annoyed with you until then.”
He laughs, low and pleased. “Progress.”
He turns to lift another table, muscles flexing as he hauls it into place.
I’ve always been an arm girl. And Shaun’s have always been a problem.
I can be annoyed and still notice things. I’m talented like that. And despite myself, a quiet thought slips in.
Maybe today isn’t a total disaster after all.